The Seven Deadly Secrets of the Lady Morgana
by lawla
Summary: A sequel to 'The Seven Deadly Shortcomings of Arthur Pendragon', this time focusing on Morgana. Eight chapters, each a one-shot about the seven deadly sins save for the epilogue. Rated for language and sexual innuendo. :D
1. Lust

**AN: Okay, I've been thinking about doing this for a while, and decided to take advantage of the fact that I've got a free tomorrow to do my mucho homework in (who knew bloody a-levels was going to be so much work :o). It's sort of a sequel to my 'The Seven Deadly Shortcomings of Arthur Pendragon' fic, only I doubt this one will be as long. Hopefully, it'll be as good though, but that'll remain to be seen ;).**

**Disclaimer: Oh, as much as I'd love Love LOVE to earn Merlin, I'm just not cool enough. Damn ;)**

**Chapter rated for sexual innuendo, though nothing too graphic :/**

**Review, pretty please? (:**

**Oh and by the way, this is pretty much a rewrite of the other chapter, only somehow, I managed to delete the first after copying and pasting the above bit across, which really is not really very clever at all :L**

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Morgana's not sure when love became a punishment. When stolen glances became the knives in her soul. When their eyes on her lips made her shudder, nauseated. When she finally realised she could use their own, petty wishes against them. When did lust become the greatest weapon her arsenal possessed? Greater than the hatred, greater even than the sorrow. Just lust, a lust for the flesh that couldn't be satiated by kisses.

That's why she's here now, waiting, waiting in the shadows with her face concealed. They don't need to see her to know who she is, to desire her. Her silhouette is enough to get them begging like dogs at her feet. They'll all get their time, of course, but tonight, it's his turn.

She spotted him as soon as she came in, a raucous figure too blond, too tanned, laughing overloud with the intention of attracting as much attention to himself as possible. She's seen him before in Camelot's Inns, listened to him long enough to know his one weakness is a pretty face and an eager body.

He is just what she has been looking for.

She waits till she's caught his eye before allowing the hood to slip back a little, the shoulder of her dress to slip beneath her cloak. He watches with avid attention, the ale in his hands momentarily forgotten at such a sensual distraction. Sharing winks with his friends, he rises grinning, before sauntering over with his hands in his pockets.

Morgana doesn't need to glance down to know that she has him in the honey trap now.

"What's a fine lady like you doing in a place like this?" he asks, and behind him, his friends roar. Drunk. Filthy. Like animals possessed. They stir the hatred within her to a new level, and she makes a mental note that they will be next.

Saying nothing, she rises from the old wooden chair and motions to the stairs that lead to her room. His eyes light up, widen, and then he turns back to his friends and winks. Morgana feels a thrill tingle up her spine, and it's got nothing to do with what she's about to do. The fact that she can trap him so easily, and without magic, reinforces what she has lately come to realise; she needs no one but herself.

Taking his hand, she leads him to her chamber feeling the beat of his pulse through her finger tips, listening to his drunken slurs as he tells her how beautiful she is. One word and she silences him, and within no time, she's lying on the bed with him on top of her. He's kissing her neck, but her eyes are closed shut so she doesn't have to see that unfamiliar face. If she does that for long enough, maybe she can fool herself into thinking it's _him_ that's making love to her, that it's _him _moaning her name. Maybe she can conjure an image of _him_ to mind when so much ofhas been forgotten. So much of _him _is lost.

It was never meant to be like this.

Not, she decides, that this is making love. Love is a lie; it should be sacred and passionate, and instead, it simply leads to pain and anguish. This is purely a business deal, pleasure for him and life for her. She needs him to feel wanted, and he wants her to feel needed. For her, the attraction is in the feeling of blood pumping in through her veins, the heart inside her swelling and convulsing with every breath, a reminder that it's still whole despite the fact it feels torn in two. He wants her because she's beautiful, but he doesn't realise her beauty masks an uglier side than he could possibly imagine.

Men are foolish like that.

The knight above her rolls off and lays beside her panting. He's got what he's wanted and now he's grinning, his grey eyes cold. He's so proud of himself, so chuffed. In his mind, he's listening to his peers congratulations because after all, he's taken her, the most unattainable woman in the court, for a ride. He doesn't realise that she is the one calling the shots tonight. She has control, and she is longing to exert it.

He leans over to kiss her neck and she lets him, allows him to fondle her as he fills her ear with heavy breathing. He climbs on top of her again, ready for another round and she takes a sharp intake of breath. She knows his type, this _gallant _gentleman who's too lazy to support his own weight. He's crushing her, forcing the breath out of her and she hates him for it.

It's just another reminder that no one is perfect.

As if to taunt her, an image of _his _face comes to mind and stays there in faultless clarity, his lips slightly parted, the eyes sparkling with merriment. She knows that perfection is merely an idea, but she can't imagine that the holiest of angels could be more beautiful than _he _did all those years ago. She longs to reach out and touch him, but reality is not yet so warped that she doesn't know he's just a figment of her imagination.

The knife beneath her, lovingly placed early, is pressing into her back, and she shifts her hands so that she can grip the long, ivory handle. She remembers the first time she used it, the first neck it touched; _his, _pale, damp with rain and sweat.

"You don't have to do this," he'd said, and she'd allowed himself to believe him. She'd allowed herself to believe in the alternative life he had offered, and then been crushed when it'd been withdrawn. For so long, she had cried and cursed until she was a phantom, pale and sorrowful, baying to the moon. And then, the truth had enveloped her, and she'd come out the other side seeing life for what it was.

There is no happily ever after.

She runs her fingers over the blade again. It feels cold to her touch, willing. It itches for her to use it, and she allows the impulse to guide her as long fingers close tightly about the hilt. With expert precision, the dagger is whipped out, raised, used.

He makes no noise. The shock takes care of that, and for once, Morgana is pleased. She prefers it when they die quietly, when they suffer slowly as she has suffered ever since. Too often does their pride evaporate to leave behind a crying, shrieking mess crying for their mothers, and with it, Morgana's self-respect.

Men like this one make her feel lordly.

As he meets her cold, calculated gaze, the almond eyes widen and the nostrils flare, the mouth opening then closing like that of a fish as he struggles to gasp out for breath. Blood flows from his mouth, staining the sheets, falling on her face as she pushes him off her. He flounders beside her trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood from his back as she watches. A laugh.

"Why?" he chokes out, as gracefully, she rises to her feet, her lithe, naked body glittering with crimson.

"Because he left me."

A glance and then she climbs into the waiting bath, feels the warm water inside the copper tub as it washes over her alabaster skin. He's still lying on the bed, still choking on his own life as she cleanses herself, rids any traces of him from her body. She watches without compassion as he takes his last breath, his lips turning blue with the effort. Just as she has been starved of love, he is starved of breath. Together, they are both starved of life.

She slips out of the bath, the water behind her a rich red. Steam still rises, though the vapour is tinged pink. She dries herself feeling nothing, before slipping on the blue silk of her gown and pulling a fur cape tight about her shoulder. Glancing in the mirror, she would never suspect that anything less than the usual had gone on. By the time his body is discovered, she will be long gone.

For that is her path. She keeps wandering aimlessly, across the land of Albion and then back again in the hope that someday, she might stumble across him. It's a naïve hope, and a childish one, but it's the one thing that keeps her going all the same. The thought she might once more see those eyes before she dies gives her the strength to keep going. Keep living. For _him_.

With his name on her lips, she leaves the room.


	2. Wrath

**AN: Rather short I'm afraid but I thought I was due an update (I'm being crap with everything I know), and not sure when I'll next be able to as seriously, who knew you'd get so much sodding homework for A-level. It seems to be a competition as to who can give the most out. Ridiculous! Aha, rant over ;)**

**Ermm yeah, so this one's wrath. I'll say I might add something more to it a bit later, but tbh, I doubt I will (unless people hate it and it's like, mega-shit or something) :L. But you know. Hopefully it won't come to that.**

**Just a random note, but I am loving those episodes with Sarah Parish (: I've watched them both like four times or something silly like that :L The last one was especially awesome ;)**

**Anyway, enough rambling. Enjoy, and if you feel like it, leave a little review even if it's just one word ;)**

**Thanks to myrmidryad for bringing all the nasty grammar mistakes to my attention (:**

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In the dead of night, Morgana rages. It's not fair, this living death, these mind-numbing dreams that fill every second of every day. They consume her, wound her, make her too scared to breath but too afraid to die.

She doesn't want to die, but she has dreamt it.

She's dreamt them all in the deep passions of her visions. More like nightmares, they leave her to wake with blood in her mouth, a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knows they will be the death of her, drive her to the very edge of her sanity and then over it, but it is not for herself that she screams. It is for them, her very heart and soul, and the punishments that will befall them eventually.

Not even Merlin can live forever.

Uther thinks he is invincible but he is not. Beneath that layer of hatred and anger, there is a burning that Morgana has only recently recognised as fear and sorrow. For all his kingly wealth, he will never be happy; he has Arthur, yes, and he loves his son like the swallow loves the sky, but he can never forget the memory that was Igraine. Nothing can compare and he dreams only of joining her. His life is wasted wishing for things that could never happen.

No amount of men can save his soul.

Uther's time is near, though not perhaps as close as Gaius'. Gaius, the always kind friend who had tried to help her though it was not in his capacity to do so. Gaius who risked everything for Merlin. Gaius who will die old and unhappy, alone and chasing the failings of his past.

He will regret.

For Arthur, Morgana sheds tears of sorrow. She thinks back to what might have been, and what once was, and feels only anger at the love that never was. Anger at the harbinger of doom; at Lancelot, and at Gwen, and at Merlin and herself. They are his murderers. The child she helped save is only the final blow.

She might as well wield the dagger herself.

Gwen is thought of with bitterness and with fury, but there is a love there that smoulders like a distant star. To know what she'll do, how she'll cast off Arthur's heart in a favour of another so quickly with full knowledge at how she could break him, makes Morgana seethe. Arthur likes to pretend he's strong, but Morgana knows differently. She knows he's like her, fighting back the void for another hour, for another chance of happiness. Gwen knows that too.

In time, Gwen will know everything.

Merlin was a star that blazed across the night sky like a meteor. He was the diamonds in the crown, the happiness in the smile, but he is gone now, lost to everyone but himself. What he is searching for, Morgana is not sure, but she knows he will not find it. Not with her, nor him, nor any of them. Merlin is doomed to live alone and unhappy, chasing ghosts and counting the shadows. In his youth, he knows joy and friendship; soon, the light will fade and he will know only silence.

And she cannot save him.

Rage boils within her, and like a serpent, she lunges for the nearest thing. A mirror falls to the floor, the smooth glass fracturing into a thousand pieces like her heart. They do not understand this future. They look at her with inquiring eyes, but in their vibrant depths, Morgana senses the scorn. They doubt her, think her insane, and though she longs to shake them and inform them of their wrong, she knows she can't. If she were to tell them what she had seen, they would hate her, and then she would feel their anger instead of only her own.

Wrath will kill them all eventually.


	3. Greed

**AN: Hello! Long time no post I know so I deserve a slap on the wrist! In my defense, I have just sat my AS levels which went SPECTACULARLY badly in every shape and form. Hooray for resists I say. Hope all you who have had exams have done better than me!**

**Anywayyyy, I'm not quite sure where this came from and I've rambled a fair bit so you'll have to forgive me if it's a wee bit garbled! Is that even a word? Ah, I swear exams are the weapons of people trying to fry your brains. Anyway, if it is a load of rubbish, please don't hesitate to tell me! I've been to lazy to check it so it's also only a first draft :L Naughty I know, but I wanted to post something before I was ninety! :L**

**Also, it's pretty short because I always find greed - and gluttony actually - the hardest to write. I was thinking of making Gluttony into a humourous fic but then I'm not sure if it would fit in well with the rest. I'm not a very good fluff writer anyway, but any thoughts on the matter are mucho appreciated!**

**Hopefully Merlin will be coming back soon - it better be anyway because Doctor Who's ending next week (no more Matt Smith *sniff* :'[) and I'm going to have withdrawl symptons! That, and I really miss the beauty of Colin and Bradley on my TV! **

**Right, I'll shut up now! Happy reading :) Reviews as ever are beautiful!**

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The Lady Morgana is not who she was.

Gone is the noble, spirited gentlewoman of the past replaced by a heartless statue with limbs of living marble. Those eyes, once so alive with fire and passion, are empty; expressionless like the portraits that hung in Uther's gallery when she was a child. Just as they are a shadow of their subjects, she is a shadow of herself. A spectre where the ghosts should have long since been laid to rest.

That is why she brings herself to these places, why she subjects herself to the torture, the ultimate disappoint that she will always feel. That crippling sense of loss when day turns to dusk and she is still just a lonely phantom haunting the graveyards of those she once loved.

She is too dead to live, too living to die.

A sudden cry jolts her back to the present and away from the ruins of Camelot. Looking down at the beggars beseeching her for mercy, she feels only disgust. How pitiful they are, how grubby and unkempt their clothes are as bony hands stretch towards her. She's surrounded by a scrum of human filth, a noble island under siege and in her mind she pictures their graves.

"Food, miss, give us food," they cry, and though she could grant it in an instant, she shakes her head. Why should she help them after all? They will not aid her even if they were capable of it. Man's spirit is selfish. Many winters have taught her that.

And why should she share her magic with them? _Her _magic, the thing that both curses and sustains her! Without it, she is just like them – lost and tired and drowning in the misery of poverty. Material wealth had long ago been stripped from her. Everything down to the clothes on her back taken.

So now she hordes what she has, and steals what she doesn't.

"Please!" A lone voice cuts through the mob, soft and unlike the others. For a brief second, the stone inside her ribcage pulses. He looks like him, she realises, or perhaps he does because she wants him too. She's good at that, inflicting her own perceptions on people, bending them to the images in her mind. Normally, she avoids _his _image at all cost, but she's been alone for too long. He's been playing too much on her mind as of late and she's becoming weak. Frail.

Little girl lost, and she's tired of waiting to be found.

Another look confirms her suspicions. This man is not him. What a fool she's been for thinking he could be? Disappointment stirs within her stomach. How cruel of him to trick her like that, to make her belief that there is hope where no hope now remains? He is lost – lost to her simply because he does not want to be found.

He does not want her.

Determination rises; she will escape him once and for all.

To start, she will kill them.

A spell, and someone cracks, their head lolling back, eyes wide open in disbelief. Morgana does not wait to watch as the first victim falls to the ground. Lies still. She is already killing her tenth.

"A loathsome witch!" the one who looked like _him _shouts and she takes pleasure in seeing the way his body snaps like the dolls she used to play with before Camelot and Uther and Guinevere ever came about. Before _he _haunted her every step.

With every scream, she feels something stir within her. Not happiness – never happiness – but not despair either. It is only when a hundred bodies lie at her feet that she realises it is greed. She relishes the control she has over life and death; desires it; needs it even! It is that feeling of life and humanity she has been craving all these years.

Humanity.

The word makes her want to spit. There is nothing humane about the race of men. Every victim is a perpetrator, a liar, a heathen that goes against every principle they preach. Every man, woman and child is like her. Bad like her.

This new Morgana represents the very worst of humanity: selfish and stubborn, cruel and maleficent.

And greedy.

Oh so greedy for the slightest affection that comes her way. She forces it with spells and enchantments, but it is never the same. The soft caress of her cheek drives a stake through her heart, the weight of a hand on her hip crushing. Where the touch once gave her pleasure it now brings pain, but she will keep trying anyway, keep searching to recapture what is lost behind Camelot's walls.

One day, she hopes to find it.


End file.
